


Untitled Apology-fic 1 (or, Honey, I Broke the Kink-Meme)

by Predatrix



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not my normal style of thing at all.</p>
<p>I made a mistake on the kink-meme, and this led to Drama. So I decided the only thing I could offer (I don't art or vid) was trying to write fics for others outside my norm.</p>
<p>This one's for the prompt "The Gentleman, trying to seduce Arabella to come to one of his balls, decides to magically show her that her husband is being unfaithful to her in the Peninsula. This does not have the effect he expects." (Arabella as interested voyeuse)</p>
<p>For the rest of you pervs in Our Poor Sulky Little Dumpling's Fluff & Smut Brigade (membership about five and rising), normal service will be along as soon as possible, or see the third of my apology-fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Apology-fic 1 (or, Honey, I Broke the Kink-Meme)

That gentleman in green, with unusual hair, was there again. She really did not want to speak to him, and wished ladies got things a little their own way in society at large. Her beloved Jonathan had been as attentive and giving as one could wish, of course, but left among unpleasant and irritating people like Drawlight, and Lascelles, and Norrell, and this peculiar person, whoever he was, she sometimes seemed unable to detach herself politely and trying to work out whether it was quite worth detaching herself _impolitely_ was a little difficult. For a week or two he had made the most determined attempts to invite her to various balls she had not the least desire to attend.

“Your husband is ugly, and stupid, and does not deserve you,” he said, and she flared up with righteous anger at that, took a sharp breath, “And I suppose you propose yourself as an acceptable alternative, sir? I certainly do not regard you so!” He was a strange man, Arabella thought (and she might know, herself having a husband in the habit of introducing himself with the words “I am Strange!”, to which nobody from Wellington down had disagreed). His hair and eyebrows barely looked like the sort one might expect to see on a human head, more like some sort of plant one might see in a garden.

“It is not as though your husband has remained faithful to you,” he said, glaring.

“How would you know such a thing?” Certainly this gentleman had not been on the Peninsula at the time; she had probably seen him about every day in London.

“I can certainly show you,” he said.

“I am perfectly happy with the magician I am married to, sir,” she said. “I am not in need of being pursued by another.” Which was a deal more polite than she felt like being. “Nor do you have your silver bowl, and I do not intend you to borrow ours for whatever tricks you want to foist upon me.”

The gentleman lifted one of his curious eyebrows. “Only look into your faithless fool’s bedroom.”

“I have no desire to…” Jonathan would be far too troubled with questions of the War to go looking for camp-followers, she thought. She was not entirely sure whether he was writing her letters and they were being intercepted by the French or whether he had got caught up in the fortunes of war and forgotten to write, but she had absolutely no belief that he was seeking out other feminine company.

The gentleman gestured with his hand—which had curiously sharp nails—suddenly they were in a bedroom, no it was a tent. In a strange disembodied fashion, where there didn’t seem enough room in the tent for two extra people, but they were nevertheless still somehow there. She was a little afraid. She had learned somewhat about magic from Jonathan, and from what he told her about Norrell’s learning, and comparing this to the difficulty of scrying with a silver bowl, it was obviously more powerful.

It was a very untidy tent. She could just see her husband on the bed, and smiled with fondness at the evidence of his unruly curls on the pillow and his long leg sticking out over the edge (he preferred not to be too hot in bed, and often stuck his foot out to get cool). Dear Jonathan! Lying next to him, with an arm flung over him was a soldier still in most of his uniform, apparently drunk.

They began to have a conversation, sozzled-drunk, about the events of their day. To her relief, it appeared to involve more drink than bloodshed. The soldier kept telling Jonathan he must have been drinking earlier to move that river so far out of the desired direction, but well done for getting it into the French camp. Apparently, the soldier called Jonathan “Merlin”, and Jonathan called the soldier, “Arthur”, probably to go with that. She wondered for a moment if it was Wellington, who actually _was_ called Arthur, and actually _was_ in the appropriate position of authority over his magician, but she’d seen a picture of him once, and decided this was some friendly soldier. She was glad Jonathan had found friends, but it was her considered opinion he could find friends anywhere. He had nearly managed it with Norrell, who was unpromising material enough.

They looked very cosy, but not exactly like lovers.

She could not suppress a chuckle. “Is _this_ your idea of infidelity, sir? It is my idea of drunkenness, which is not so heavy a fault in a soldier at war. These illusions shall have no effect on my wishes.”

He muttered something about choosing the wrong time to look at, and gestured again.

Now the two figures on the bed were naked, and presumably sober, and…

She nearly swallowed her tongue as she saw Jonathan kissing this ‘Arthur’ or whoever he was called. Rather fervently. She had always known he was adept and delightful at the amatory arts but had never gone so far as to consider him with anybody else, although she might have known he would be competent at it.

It was having a surprisingly warm effect on her.

“One word from you, dear lady,” said the mysterious gentleman, “and I shall restore you to visibility, where you may harangue your husband and tell him you are going to visit someone far more satisfactory.”

“Shh!” she said. “I can’t hear properly with you talking.”

She concentrated on what was happening in the bed. Even if she had imagined her husband amorously entwined with a man before (which she had not), she would have imagined him on top, just because it was the way he was with her. In fact, he’d moved both of his legs off the bed and rolled to present his backside to his lover, with a comfortable ease that spoke of practice.

To her complete shock, ‘Arthur’… Even a lady, as Arabella was, had some idea what men did with men, and it would probably involve the application of first oil and then the virile member of the person in the superior position. The idea that the soldier was shamelessly bending down to introduce his _tongue_ was somewhat of a surprise. She could not imagine it being very pleasant for poor ‘Arthur’, but Jonathan was driven into a somewhat-familiar condition of incoherent bliss. She’d certainly seen that before, if not from the same act. She imagined the softness of a tongue in one’s most secret place, and squirmed.

The soldier lifted up to say, “Keep quiet!” and Jonathan groaned and said, “When you’re doing _that?”_ and the soldier grinned and said, “Consider it my attempt to teach you military discipline.” and bent to re-apply himself to his task.

Jonathan bit the pillow as ‘Arthur’ applied his tongue in ways both vigorous and gentle.

The soldier eased himself up, and slapped Jonathan cheerfully on the bum. “And what does the Army’s tame wizard require now?” he asked.

“Only one word…” said the mysterious gentleman in green, “and you may berate him for his infidelity.”

“Oh, shhh!” It was not as though he was with a lady. A lady would be some competition. She would not begrudge him finding some comfort, however unusual, in the difficulties of war. And she did not want the irritating gentleman to interrupt when she was watching her husband tell his friend that what he wanted was a good fucking. Oh, it reminded her of how joyous it had been, being with Jonathan, and she was glad he’d found some comfort in this new, dangerous place.

‘Arthur’ had found a bottle of oil now, and was applying it to Jonathan, who was groaning cheerfully and complaining that he wouldn’t break, come on, Grant, go ahead and…

His words turned to a sharp gasp as ‘Arthur’, Grant, she supposed, took him at his word and…took him.

“You were saying?” said Grant.

“Ah…that’s a little…overwhelming,” admitted Jonathan. “Give me a minute to catch up.”

“First it’s too slow, now it’s too fast, you certainly keep me guessing,” said Grant, but stopped still accommodatingly, and settled to rocking against him, which went down, or in, very well.

She could see that look on Jonathan’s face when he was nowhere near the final climax of the activities but was quite, quite happy to just soak things up for as long as he might. His prick was rigid, tight, even before Grant reached below to help him along with an oiled hand.

Grant was keeping going with the desired control, in and out a bit, then rocking against him, then in and out, then…

Jonathan was sweating now, taking heaving breaths. Apparently the stimulation he was getting both in front and behind was quite effective.

“Come out of the shadows,” said the gentleman beside her, “and you may offer him challenge for being a faithless husband.”

“I have no intention of berating my husband for taking what comfort he can in the fortunes of war,” said Arabella, “shh, they’re starting again.”

This time, Grant managed a longer thrust, and Jonathan just said, “Yes!”

They moved again. This time, Grant went as deep as he could go, and Jonathan spent rapturously, with a long groan. Grant kept on, finding his own pleasure, then they both collapsed on the bed.

Grant kissed Jonathan’s hair. “All right, Merlin?”

“Better for that,” admitted Jonathan.

They wiped up and slept.

Since the show was over, Arabella turned to the gentleman, and said, “I suppose if you have further such illusions to show me, I could be convinced to visit your house for one of your balls.”

She was certainly convinced it was no illusion, but nor did she feel troubled by the ‘infidelity’. She was glad that Jonathan had someone to comfort him.

If the mysterious and infuriating gentleman had vanished while she was watching, instead of asking her d—ned stupid questions about her husband’s fidelity, she had no doubt she’d have had her hand up her own skirts while watching.

She was going to retire to her bed and think about it while the image was still fresh in her mind.


End file.
